She sniffles, choking on her own breath. I smooth my thumb over her hand once.
“Deep breaths. You can’t get yourself all worked up, especially if this is nothing. It’s not good for her.”
“Her name is Emma,” she mutters.
I test it out. “Emma… I like that. That’s a good name.”
“Thanks.” She sniffles with another wipe to her cheeks, her other hand not leaving mine.
Forty minutes later I’m pulling under the bright lights of the emergency entrance, throwing the truck in park, and hopping out. I jog around to her side and open the door, helping her down gently.
She’s shaking. I can see it in her hands, the way her knees almost buckle when her feet hit the pavement.
“Easy,” I say, keeping a hand on her back. “I got you.”
We walk through the sliding doors, and they get her in a wheelchair. She gives her name, symptoms, how far along she is. The nurse continues to ask questions.
I lean in close. “I’m gonna find Ella.”
Karissa nods, eyes big and scared but focused.
I break off down the hallway toward the ER staff desk, scanning for her. A familiar voice hits my ears before I even see her.
“Cody?”
I turn.
Ella’s walking toward me fast. She’s in navy scrubs, her hair’s pulled up, and her eyes are sharp.
“What’s going on?”
“She hasn’t felt the baby,” I say quickly.
Her face changes and I follow her back to where I left Karissa.
* * *
Everything happened so fast.
One minute we were sitting in triage, Karissa’s voice shaky as she told them she hadn’t felt the baby move. The nurse couldn’t find the heartbeat right away with the Doppler. They said it was probably just the position, that sometimes it takes a minute, but I could see it in their faces. They didn’t believe their own words. They were just trying to keep her calm.
They rushed her for an ultrasound. That’s when the tone changed.
Minimal movement. Heart rate decelerating. And other words I didn’t know the meaning of. I’ve never hated medical terms so much in my life.
They didn’t wait around to let things get worse. The doctor was calling for an emergency C-section. Said that if we waited, we could lose the baby, or Karissa…or both.
Now I’m here—blue surgical suit, paper mask shoved under my chin—in a cold, sterile room. Sitting beside Karissa while a curtain hangs just above her chest as a barrier between us and what’s happening on the other side.
Her arms are stretched out. Her fingers twitch. She’s trying to stay calm, but I can see the tremble in her body as I reach to rub her shoulder.
I wasn’t planning on being here for this. I didn’t think she’d want me—or anyone—in the room, no matter how this baby was going to come out.
“I’m right here,” I say, keeping my voice low. “They got you.”
She nods, eyes staring straight up, and a tear escapes the corner of her eye and slides down her face.
I don’t know what’s happening beyond that curtain, but I hear metal instruments. Voices speaking quickly. Someone says “pressure” and then “almost there.”
